Self Aware
by Jetsss
Summary: this is set in the fifth year. this is a crack fic in which harry hits his head, undergoes a strange personality test, and becomes self aware. weirdness ensues. rated M for just in case.
1. Chapter 1

ok so this first chapter is going to be EXTREMELY similar to the first chapter of book Five, except for the end third, and a few bits in the middle, also its gonna be shorter. So. this is going to turn into a crack fic, in which harry knows he's in a book and his personality changes quite a bit, he's also gonna start using his brain for once. gonna get freaky. Hopefully. Also, try writing a review once per chapter. I like reviews. if you have any ideas for where the story could go, message my account. Also, swearing Harry coming up later. And Disclaimer: i do not own Harry Potter and I'm not making profit from this.

 **Dudley Demented**

It was the hottest day of summer, and a thick mask of lethargy lay over the parched residents of Privet Drive. In fact, everything seemed to be parched that summer (it had been the hottest in recorded in the past several years); the usually gleaming cars were dusty and stationery on the quiet street; and lawns once green with life were now yellowing and dry. The people of Privet Drive, now omitted from the joys of lawn-tending, had retreated to the confines of their open-windowed houses, to pursue more TV-centred goals. In fact, the only person still outdoors was lying on his stomach, neck painfully twisted to glimpse in through the open window at the TV.

He was a skinny, shockingly black-haired boy with twisted wire frames atop his nose who had the strange pinched look of someone who's grown a large amount in a short period of time. His torn jeans hung off of his legs like sagging skin; his T-shirt fading to the point that the pattern vaguely resembled just about anything if you put your mind to it; and the soles of his trainers were peeling away so that when he walked he made flip-flop noises on the hot pavement. This look did not exactly inspire fondness in his neighbours, who felt scruffiness to be thing that ought to be punishable by large amounts of time spent doing community service. However, as he was crouching in an untended bush, he was quite invisible to the passing eye.

Harry was quite proud with this idea to hide out here. On the one hand of course, he wasn't particularly comfortable lying there on the hot, dry earth, being prickled by bushes; but at least it was better then attempting to block out his uncle's loud teeth grinding and nasty questions asked pointedly with plenty of mouthing 'obscenities' (anything to do with 'Harry's kind') and leering. As though their thoughts were somehow connected (Harry shuddered at the thought) the elder Dursley suddenly spoke. "Glad to see the boy's stopped trying to butt in. Where is he anyway?'"

"I don't know. Not in the house." Aunt Petunia said unconcernedly.

Vernon grunted. " _Watching the news…"_ Harrys uncle and aunt continued in this fashion for a little bit, while Harry attempted to concentrate on the news. He shifted onto his back, and watched Mrs Figg, their local elderly cat-lady, trudge across the road frowning and muttering to herself. Harry was pleased he was hidden in the bush, obscured from her view; she had taken to asking him around for tea whenever they saw each other.

Vernons voice permeated the air like a foul stench. "Where's Dudders?"

"Out for tea with the Polkisses'. Our Duddykins is so popular isn't he?" Harrys aunt remarked, misty eyed with adoration for the fat tub of lard she called son. Harry resisted a snort with difficulty. If Dudley had one skill, it was convincing his moronic parents of the most contrived scenarios Harry could imagine. Well, that and punching things.

Every time "Duddykins" was "out for tea", what that meant was he was hanging about with his gang of equally stupid and imbecilic thug friends, beating up people younger then them, smoking on street corners, and throwing rocks at cars other people. Harry often crossed paths with them on his newspaper-scavenging evening walks.

The opening notes that heralded the 7 o'clock news sounded, and something tightened in Harry's stomach; but there was nothing important on the TV, just the usual tripe. The thing in Harry's stomach unclenched, and he sighed, rolling onto his back. Every day this summer was the same: the mounting tension, the suspense, the relief, and then that tension again, each time worse than before… Harry listened for a little while longer, before realising that nothing could be more insignificant that a jet skiing squirrel that had, no doubt to its own surprise, made it onto the news.

Harry moved to get up, but had moved no more than a couple of inches when several things happened in quick succession.

A loud crack broke the silence of Little Whinging; a cat streaked out from beneath a car and flew out of sight; a shriek, a bellow, and the crinkling of broken china sounded from the Dursleys' living room, and Harry attempted to leap to his feet, pulling his thin wooden wand from his waistband like a mighty sword — before his head connected with the top of the Dursleys' window. A searing pain was felt in the top of Harry's head and, eyes streaming, he struggled to his feet, only to be grabbed by what seemed to him to be a set of ten greasy, purpling sausages that clamped around his neck.

After a fair deal of choking, and some scrabbling for his windpipe to be released, Harry pulled himself free from his walrus-like uncle. Panting, he fell forward into the bush. before straightening up and staring about. There was no sign of what had caused the sharp noise, but Harry couldn't help noticing that it had sounded oddly like the sound Dobby had made when apparating. Vernon waved and shouted in a conspicuous attempt to be inconspicuous to the perturbed and slightly waspish looking Mrs. Number Seven (a woman who seemed to have some sort of phobia of unkempt hair, which put Harry right next to Stalin in her books), who retreated back into the folds of her beige curtains at the sight of Harry. Vernon continued to grin manically until all the neighbours had disappeared from their windows, at which point his grin turned into a raging grimace, as he looked pointedly in Harrys direction, who took the opportunity to run before Vernon's underworked brain had time to put together an intelligible sentence devoid of wheezing.

Harry was in trouble now and he knew it. He would have to face his Aunt and Uncle later and pay for this incident, but at that moment, he had more pressing things on his mind.

That noise had sounded just like when Dobby had apparated during Harry's second year at Hogwarts. Could Dobby be here right now? Or even following Harry? Harry wheeled around at that thought and stared back at Privet Drive, which seemed deserted to him. Harry's feet carried him automatically, the muscle memory from having pounded these streets so frequently that summer kicking in. Someone magical had been there as Harry had lain in the prickly hedges, he was sure of it. But why had they decided to keep away from him? Why come to Privet Drive other than for Harry? A s his frustration kicked in and certainty leaked away, Harry felt his rage growing. he suddenly had the urge to kick something…

A few minutes later, now hobbling with a bruised toe, Harry thought about it again, slightly disappointingly. Perhaps… Perhaps it hadn't been a magical sound at all. In fact, that was probably right; Harrys mind has been deprived of magic for so long that everything now sounded like magic to him; it was his mind believing was it wanted to believe. Before Harry knew it, the dark sensation of hopelessness that had plagued him all Summer kicked in again…

Harry would wake early tomorrow morning, and pay the delivery owl another Galleon for another Daily Prophet. Was there much point nowadays? Harry just read the rest page before throwing them aside; there was nothing useful in them, not when the Ministry of Magic was still completely clueless and they hadn't gotten It through their thick skulls yet that Voldemort was back. Perhaps he would get owls from Ron and Hermione too, if he was lucky, although their letters weren't any better. From what Harry could gather, they were staying in the same place, and Harry couldn't bear the thought that they were having fun without him at the Burrow, while he was stuck in the ass-crack of the world, 'Little Whinging'. Even the name inspired despair, sounding like how someone would describe the last breaths of a dying hag.

And hadn't it been he who had proven that he could handle things? Hadn't it been him who had won the Tri-Wizard tournament single-handedly? Hadn't he been the one who had watched Cedric Diggory die, watch the Dark Lord rise from the dead? _Don't think about that,_ he said to himself, and looked up at the darkening sky. But he couldn't stop, and the injustice of it reared its ugly head inside of him as he headed toward the darkening play park. He vaulted over the locked play park gate and sat on the only swing 'Duddykins' and his gang had yet to break, staring at the sky moodily. He kicked the metal support bar that held up the swing in a fit of hormonal rage. He had alerted the entire magical world of Voldemorts return, and his reward was to be stuck in Little Whinging for four solid weeks, cut off entirely from the magical world.

The moons face had a lovesick pallor, and the street lights cast their warm foggy glow on the road. Harry didn't know how long he'd been sitting on the swing before his petulant musings were interrupted by the sounds of voices and he looked to the source of the noise. the tick tick tick noises of expensive bikes sounded as three silhouettes rode down the deserted street. One of them sung a crude song; the others laughed.

Harry knew these people. The figure at the front was unmistakably Harry's vast cousin, flanked by his faithful gang. Dudley was a big as ever, but a year of half-grapefruits, had changed his physique, and Vernon would tell anybody who listened how Dudley had become first ranked in his boxing club. Harry left the park and began to walk back toward the house. Harry liked the nighttime; there was no-one to make disapproving comments as he passed their house about his 'delinquent appearance'.

As Harry walked, Dudley's gang became visible ti him yet again; they were saying their goodbyes at the entrance to Magnolia Crescent.

"—he squealed like a little pig didn't he?" Malcom was saying, much to the amusement of others.

"Nice right hook, Big D," Piers said.

"Same time tomorrow?" said Dudley

"Round at my place, my parents are out." said Gordon.

"See you then." said Dudley.

"Cya Big D!"

"Bye Dud!"

Harry stood and waited in the shadows for the rest of the gang to depart before continuing down the road towards Dudley, who was also walking in the direction of Privet Drive.

"Hey Big D!" Dudley turned.

"Oh." He grunted. "It's you."

"How long have been 'Big D' then?"

"Shut it!" Dudley snarled feral, before turning away.

"Pretty cool nickname," Harry said, grinning and falling into step beside his cousin. "But you'll always be 'Ickle Duddykins' to me."

"I said, SHUT IT!" Said Dudley, his meaty fingers curling into fists.

Harry stared in mock surprise at his cousin. "Don't you're friends know that what you're mum calls you?"

Dudleys breath whistled through his teeth as he held in barely suppressed rage; it seemed as though it was taking all of his effort not to punch Harry in the face.

"Who'd you beat up tonight? Another ten year old?"

"He was sixteen for you're information, and he was knocked out cold by the time i finished with him," snarled Dudley. "And he deserved it. He cheeked me."

"Did he say that you look like someone set fire to your face and tried to put it out with a bat? Because thats not cheek Dudders, that's true." Harry felt like he was using his cousin as an outlet for all his rage, and was finally able to siphon some of it off.

"Not so brave at night are you?" Dudley sneered.

Harry was completely nonplussed. What did Dudley mean? "This is night, Dudley. That's what you call it when the sky goes dark like this."

"Not at night you idiot. In your bed. I heard you — moaning. _Don't kill Cedric, don't kill Cedric —_ who's Cedric, you're boyfriend?"

Harrys blood turned cold. "You're — you're lying." But Harry knew he wasn't — how else would he know about Cedric.

" _Dad, dad save me, mum he killed him — don't you point that thing at me_!" Harry was now pointing his wand directly at Dudley chest. "Don't, talk about that again," Harry rasped."Do you understand me?"

 _"_ _Don't point that stick at me!"_

"Do you understand me?"

"STOP POINTING IT AT ME—"

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"

Dudley shuddered suddenly, and gave an icy gasp before falling to the ground. All of a sudden, the star-strewn sky was suddenly black and starless, and the misty street lamps had turned off on either side of the alley.

 _Not in Privet Drive. How?_ Harry thought. Dementors. Dudleys suddenly shouted out from the floor, terrified. "What are you doing Harry?! _STOP IT! I swear i'll hit you!"_ The cold was so intense that Harry was shivering, and goosebumps broke out on the surface of his skin.

He saw them.

Dark wraiths; - tendrils of shadow; getting closer, memories falling away like crumbling bricks—

They were getting closer and closer, Dudley had gotten shakily to his feet, screaming that he couldn't see, that they were sapping his vision, they're getting closer and closer, sapping at Harry, he's staggering now—

No. Harry cleared his mind. Summoning his happy thoughts, he raised his wand.

"Expecto Patronum!" a silver wisp came from the tip of his wand. _I'll never see Ron and Hermione again—_ A silver stag burst forth from Harrys wand and charged the two nearest dementors, which were thrown backwards into the darkness. Dudley was now behind Harry, and had gathered some of wits, but still couldn't see. One last demented was gliding towards Harry, the air felt cold again— WHAM! Dudley swing out a ham-sized fist, and smashed Harry in the back of his skull, send him flying — straight through the _dementor_.

The last thing Harry remembered was the sensation of suddenly having you head being plunged into icy cold water — and then he blacked out.

….

"I AM GOING TO KILL MUNDUNGUS FLETCHER !" Yelled Mrs Figg a few minutes later. A fading silver stag stood nibbling an unconscious Harry's ear. Harry woke with groggy half-witted moan. at first he thought he'd woken in his bed; but then the hard paving registered, as did a dull throbbing present in the back of his skull…

The events of the past half an hour, came back to him. He looked around for Dudley—who seemed to still be breathing. Harry clambered to his feet to check on his fat cousin, when he was spun around to face Mrs. Figg. The gasped in pain, clutching his head which throbbed horribly from the spin. Suddenly Harrys eyes widened, as the revelation that his crazy old cat-loving neighbour knew about dementors hit him. Mrs. Figg talked insanely to herself while Harry thought about all the things she could have done to make his life easier… before his eyes rolled back into his head and he fainted again.

…..

Mrs. Figg was, very reasonably, quite irritable. Because, after over fourteen years of keeping a watchful eye over Harry, acting as well as she possibly could to fit the muggle cliche (she even adopted several more cats) that she slowly had become over time. And now, all due to Mundungus Fletcher, _that moron_ , she thought, Harry Potter had almost died. Instead he had gone headfirst through a _dementor_ , and then fainted. And then fainted again.

So it was fair enough that she should be cursing Mundungus Fletcher to the Uagadou Dungeons.

…

Harrys eyes snapped open with a sudden clarity. He clambered slowly to his feet. Mrs. Figg turned back to him, worry and anger in her eyes. "Harry, good to see you're awake—"  
Harry raised a hand to stop from speaking, cutting her off abruptly. "Wait, wait, wait wait wait — you're a _witch?!"_

"I'm a squib, not a witch. and Fletcher should know not to leave me on my own," she started angrily, "when _he knows I can't use magic_ —"

"WAIT," Harry said again, cutting off Mrs. Fletcher once more. " _WHY,_ in ALL the years you knew me, and knew the Dursleys, did you not tell me that MAGIC existed?! What _possible_ reason could you have had for that?!" Harry was feeling extremely angry, and his head was oddly clear; clearer than it had ever been—

"Dumbledore wanted you to have a normal childhood and i was told to keep watch over you—"

"BEING STRANGLED BY YOUR UNCLE IS NOT NORMAL!" Harry choked out. Why would anybody act so irrationally? It made no sense at all, he felt like he was reading a book — Harry stopped, his jaw clamping shut. He stood like that for a moment, His eyes, closing and fluttering, his jaw tensing and un-tensing. Harry began to pace back and forth in circle. He stopped. He grinned. He grinned wider. He stopped grinning abruptly.

"Harry what are you—" Mrs. Figg wasn't used to being shushed this much, and it was getting annoying…

TO BE CONTINUED?

TO BE CONTINUED.


	2. Chapter 2

**Dudley Soulless**

Harry grinned wider. He stopped grinning abruptly.

"Harry what are you—" Mrs. Figg wasn't used to being shushed this much, and it was getting annoying.

"We should check on Dudley," Harry said, and turned towards his piglike cousin who was lying spreadeagled on the floor. "C'mon get up Dudley," Harry said irritably. His cousin didn't move an inch. A man had apparated nearby and was talking with Mrs. Figg animatedly, but Harry wasn't focusing on that. _If something has happened to Dudley, I'm screwed,_ he thought. Harry lifted Dudley to his feet. his piggy cousins eyes had a glassy look to them, mouth hanging open slightly…

….

"Dudley? DUDYKINS?!" Petunia was sobbing over her son's prostate figure, while Vernon stared with wide eyed shock,, his mouth opening and closing soundlessly, as Harry attempted to explain as well as he could. The Dursleys had always been horrible to him, but no-one deserved to have their son's literal soul sucked out of his mouth by the personification of fear, leaving him an empty shell. That was too far, even for the two abusive foster-parents that had so quickly deigned to make Harry's life a living hell. "… you see, Dudley's gone, he's, well his body is still here, but his mind, his mind is—"

"WHAAAAUUUGHHH AAHG WHYY -hic- _WHY, my d-dudders…"_

"I'll leave you to it, then," Harry said weakly, making to brush past Vernon and Petunia(who's knees had buckled) and go to his broom cupboard. But before he could make it past, a purple hand shot out and grabbed him.

Uncle Vernon seemed to have found his words. "AND JUST WHERE DO YOU THINK YOU'RE GOING? YOU DID THIS TO HIM! YOU-YOU FREAK! _We should never have taken you in! GET OUT!"_ He thundered, pointing angrily to the door with the hand that wasn't shoving his nephew violently backwards.

An owl swooped through the window and dropped a letter into the palm of Harry's hand, before swiftly turning and departing in a flurry of feathers. "OOOOOWWWLLLSS!" Vernon screeched.

Harry was ripping open the note already, only vaguely aware of Petunia sobbing in the background.

Dear Mr. Potter,

We have received intelligence that you performed the Patronus Charm at twenty-three minutes past nine this evening in a Muggle-inhabited area and in the presence of a Muggle. The severity of this breach of the Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery has resulted in your expulsion from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Ministry representatives will be calling at your place of residence shortly to destroy your wand.

As you have already received an official warning for a previous offence under section 13 of the International Con- federation of Wizards' Statute of Secrecy, we regret to inform you that your presence is required at a disciplinary hearing at the Ministry of Magic at 9 a.m. on August 12th.

Hoping you are well, Yours sincerely,

Mafalda Hopkirk

IMPROPER USE OF MAGIC OFFICE

Ministry of Magic

Harry felt numb, his hands shaking as he reread the letter. He'd been expelled from Hogwarts. There was nothing left but to run. He'd have to leave, start a new life, change his name to John Smith and leave the country. Then The-Boy-Who-Lived remembered something; that he was The-Boy-Who-Lived. Dumbledore was probably doing something right now. Although he couldn't stay here; not when his uncle would likely strangle him once he fully got over the shock of his only son being killed.

After hurriedly packing his things, Harry walked awkwardly from the house, his legs feeling as though he had rickets. Once he'd walked down the street, the indigo sky strewn with stars, he stuck out his wand hand. With a flash and a bang, a violet monster burst forth from the abyss, engine roaring. The Knight Bus was written in bright lettering on the side of the bus, although someone (somehow) had scratched the B partially off. Harry stepped onto the bus, the doors opening automatically. "Hello yet again, 'Neville Longbottom'. The Elusive 'Neville' it a pleasure, sir," said Stanley, bowing so low his knees bent crookedly, and offering a conspiratorial wink. Harry smiled back weakly, before paying for his ticket and taking a seat in one of the beds, a cup of hot chocolate ("I'll throw in a hot chocolate because i like you so much _Neville_ ") in hand. Once he arrived at The Leaky Cauldron, he'd think about his plan for the time left till school started again; for now though, he'd sleep.

Harry missed the stream of owls that came flying into the living room of 4 Privet Drive.

….

It had been several days since Harry had had the fateful encounter with a dementor that would change his world forever. Because, you see, Harry had realised something.

Harry had realised he was in a book.

He wasn't quite sure how he knew, he just did; and the funny thing was that all he needed was to 'just know', because 'just know[ing]' was the sort of gimmicky, contrived, 'I feel it in my heart' sort of thing that happened in books. Not only that, but more time he spent thinking about his newly realised situation (which tended to be every hour he'd spent awake due to the fact that realising you're in a book is a pretty profound thing), the more he began to realise some of the power that he wielded. Because, from what he could tell from thinking about the past 15 years of his life, He was in the sort of book in which the good guys always won, they bad guys came close, there were a few deaths, but mainly you could act nobly if you were the main character and you wouldn't die, just because _it would dissatisfy the reader_. And no author wants to dissatisfy the reader. And it just so happened that the majority of the readers were the sort of people who didn't want the hero to just die at the end, or for characters to just randomly die halfway through.

This meant that Harry could pretty much, at least theoretically, as long as he dictated conversations and acted noble and such, influence the future _heavily_. Which is, as he was to discover just a few days after his arrival at The Leaky Cauldron, was a pretty big deal.

He'd been having a conversation with a man at the bar who'd been changing the colours of his hair at will at the bar, a shot of firewhisky in his hand. Harry had asked how he'd been doing that.

"I'm jus', I'm a musphus, a metus…" the drunkard cleared his throat loudly. "I'ma Metamorphmagus!" he stated proudly before slumping over on the bar. It was now that Harry had had the idea of testing his theory. "mm, oh, oh yeah yeah, I think I read about that once, and how you can train to be one, or be born one."

"Yep!"

"But there's also a," _I dunno,_ "an old woman in Diagon Alley that has a potion which turns you into one. But, but like, she only gives one away every hundred years."

"Yeesssss….." he slurred.

"And she picks at random."

"Urgh."  
"Aaaaand you have to be born in July."

"Hmmm, I don't think thats a rule," the bartender chipped in frowning. Harry sighed. So there was some limit to that idea then. Either that or he needed to practise. Either way, Harry was much closer to being able to get yet another skill ('metamorphmagus'ing). And considering that fact he'd been a tiny bit insanely lucky in the past four years, and he seemed to be the main protagonist, he could safely assume that he was gonna get that potion.

….

While strolling through Diagon Alley, people bustling back and forth with large floating bags of goods trailing behind them, a woman had pointed Harry out in the bustle and tussle of pre-Hogwarts shopping for books and robes (something Harry would soon be needing to do).

The woman had long scraggly grey hair, her skin pale and almost cloudy, purple veins crisscrossing her flesh. Her scruffy blue robes reminded him of Lupin. "You!"

"Yes?" Said Harry, looking nonplussed, though not doubting the fact that he was about to receive the potion. He walked toward her, a bounce in his heels as he waited to claim his prize.

However, she didn't seem to be looking at him, rather gazing off past his shoulder, and as a child came forth, looking almost comically innocent like some sort of caricature of the idea, his hair tousled and brown, his eyes sparkling horribly, Harry feeling nothing but wanting to kick the little perfect shit as he stole the potion—

Apparently arrogance and lack of foresight didn't get you very far for some reason, even when you were Harry Potter.


End file.
